It was Thursday, January 24th at the butt crack of dawn when I loaded my impossibly heavy suitcases into the back of a van, for the third time on my mission. After explaining that, yes, "all those bags are mine, the luggage of one person" and receiving looks that the load would be much more fit for seven prissy women, the trunk was shut, and we rode down roads that I used to walk on every day- for what was presumably the last time. For me, that is one of the weirder parts of being a missionary- you literally throw everything you have- your whole soul- or as we Mormons would say "your whole heart, might, mind and strength" into a town. You get to know its streets and alleys, the people, where the most vicious dogs are, and what tindahans sell the energy drinks I like (read: "addicted to") for 10 Pesos instead of 12, only to leave it all behind with 48 hours notice.You cross your fingers that your next Zone Leaders will be as nice as the ones you left behind, that the people in your next ward will feed you, that your companion won't be a freak. I also had the additional, albeit small worry of just how close I would be to white people things (McDonald's, supermarkets, etc) for my weaker moments when eating rice 3 times a day sounds a little more depressing than usual. All this normal transfer day stress was amplified by the fact that I would be training a new missionary. And not knowing what country he would be from. A foreigner meant that I would have to deal with that whole "adjustment period" read: constant complaining about how difficult it is to live in another country, in front of people that are from that country. And then the whole inferiority complex "WHY CAN'T I SPEAK PERFECT TAGALOG MY FIRST STEP OFF THE PLANE?!?!?" Yeah, not a huge fan of angst. But it also meant that if I wanted to eat mashed potatoes, I wouldn't have to do so alone. A Filipino was less tricky, had much less of a chance of being a straight-laced, self-righteous windbag, and came pre-wired with the language. But there was still the chance that he would be brimming with bitter, jealousy induced racism toward people from First World countries. All options carefully weighed (you would NOT want to see inside my head) I crossed my fingers for a Pinoy. Needless to say, I was rockin' a few stress zits....
After a 3 hour van ride through beautiful mountains and shockingly lame plains that I desperately hoped I wouldn't be assigned to, I found myself sitting in a pew at the Cauayan City chapel, dressed in my slimmest, whitest, "meeting shirt" that I was trying not to sweat through the pits of. The newbies filed in, looking as pale and clammy and nervous as ever, and us vets headed to the back of the room.One by one, our pictures popped up on the Power Point with our new places and new companions, some met with thunderous applause, and others with palpable silence at the portending doom. The pews were beginning to fill up again, and the number of missionaries in the back was growing more scant with each passing slide.. And I was still there. And zone by zone, my options were thinning, and my chances looked pretty bad. And then, to put it bluntly, God did me a solid: "and there was a pull out (removal of both missionaries from an area) in Tuguegarao Ward 4, so the new missionaries there will be Elder Dixon, opening an area for the second time and his new companion, fresh from the MTC..." Yeah, not gonna lie, they had me at Tuguegarao. Didn't even care who my kid (missionary term for "trainee") was, even if he was terrible I would still be in my favorite place. I was way too busy firing my "finger pistols" in the air like a champ.
But as it turns out, my kid is pretty awesome. His name is Elder Talines and he is suuuuuuper nice. As I do with all people, I instantly judged his appearance and behavior with reckless abandon. He's a handsome little nugget, so I figured I can convince him to wear skinny ties. Personality wise, he was completely exhausted and looked not unlike an addict, so I spared him my wrath until he was refreshed enough to speak properly. Then we both started the 3 hour van ride to my old stomping grounds, in which Elder Talines floated between sleep and wakefulness, occasionally asking me "if we were there yet," (just like a REAL kid!!!) to which I would laugh at his face and say "noooooooooo not even close." But we eventually did arrive, and the Zone Leaders escorted us to our house, at which point my jaw needed to be scraped off the ground. It's definitely smaller than my mansion in my last area, but it is also much less decrepit, and I can describe it as "really nice" without having to add the tasteless modifier "for a Third World country." And then the absolute icing on this whole giant cake was the area book, (the record of the work of past missionaries) which was complete with instructive sticky notes and names of people ready to be baptized. So yeah. Couldn't get much better. The best part of all of this is that, because I am training, I am guaranteed to be here until May. (Fires finger pistols into the air.)
So yeah, I've been smiling a lot lately. And it's not even at the stupid things other people do. I have definitely recognized God's love for all of us. If I were to put it in slang, again, you could say that He really "has my back." I can't really think of a better way to put it. My English is rapidly deteriorating. I am looking forward to using all of these blessings to further the Lord's work, which will be fueled by the sweet, sugary energy of the Dunkin Donuts that is located seven minutes from my home.
